


Not Actually Gay (doesn't mean not a little gay)

by billiethepoet, ColebaltBlue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 02:11:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1881147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billiethepoet/pseuds/billiethepoet, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColebaltBlue/pseuds/ColebaltBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Lestrade like to meet for a regular pint or three after Sherlock is gone - just a bit of normalcy with someone from Before. And they're not actually gay, neither one, so it's both a little odd and a little right to discover that maybe they might be a little gay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Actually Gay (doesn't mean not a little gay)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peg22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peg22/gifts).



> A Holmestice gift for [peg22](http://peg22.livejournal.com/).

He’s late. Christ, John is going to kill him. Greg thinks about texting, but he’s only a few minutes late. Well, maybe fifteen. But not more than twenty. And texting might just make it worse. He’s texted to cancel on John more in the last six months than he’s texted to say anything else. 

Greg enters the pub with his hands held up to his chest. “Yeah, I know. I know. I’m sorry. Had a consultant down from Edinburgh. An expert in some global imaging map thing. He talked for hours.”

Sitting at their regular table, John’s arms are crossed in front of his chest. “Yeah and you don’t know how to handle a mouthy consultant.”

“I’m out of practice.” The scrap of Greg’s chair is lost in the uproar from the crowd at the bar as a goal is scored in the football game on TV. 

John chuckles at that and rubs a hand across dry eyes. “The first round is on you. For being late.” 

Greg pushes himself back out of the chair and turns to the bar. “Fine, but you get the next one.”

_First Beer_

“Do you know anything about this match?”

“I don’t even know who’s playing.”

John spins his pint between his hands, leaving them slick with moisture. “Isn’t that why we starting coming to this pub? To watch the matches?” 

Greg shrugs and takes another swig. “Maybe. I don’t really remember.” They’re silent for a few moments. “Are you alright John?”

“Yeah, mostly.” John finishes his beer and stares into the empty glass. Greg’s learned to give him as much time as he needs when they talk about things like this. “I miss him but it’s getting better.”

Greg finishes his beer too. “Yeah, it is. It’s also your round.” 

_Third Beer_

“And bloody Mycroft shows up just as we’re pulling Sherlock out of the Thames.” Greg leans back in his chair, balancing it for a moment on two legs, before rocking forward to finish his story. “So Sherlock sweeps right past him, sodding wet coat dragging behind him, and gets right into Mycroft’s fancy car.” John is laughing, doubled over so that his forehead is nearly resting on the table. Greg joins him in a moment of mirth before finishing his story. “His leather seats must have been ruined. You should have seen his face.”

John takes another minute to stop laughing. “I bet that is the only time Sherlock willingly went anywhere with Mycroft.”

“Do you know why they hated each other so much?”

“Mycroft is a meddling prick, but I think he cared about Sherlock. Why Sherlock hated him, I have no idea.” 

Greg taps his empty glass against John’s. “Another?”

John takes a beat before he smiles “Yeah, I don’t work tomorrow. Do you?” 

“No, I’m off through the weekend. Assuming no one important gets murdered.” 

John grabs both their glasses from the table. “Can you solve a murder with a hangover?”

“I’ve got years of investigative experience that says I can, thank you very much.” 

John comes back with two more pints, and two shots of whiskey. 

_Fourth Beer, First Shot_

"So how's Molly?" John asks.

"Molly? I wouldn't know, I swear to god she's avoiding me. Did you know, just the other day I came 'round the corner and she was standing right here. 'Hiya, Molly,' I say and you know what she did? She squeaked like a bloody mouse and scurried away."

John narrowed his eyes. "You didn't ask her out, did you?" 

"What? God. No! Jesus, go get me another drink, you wanker."

_Second and third shot_

Greg looked at the four drinks in John's hands as he unsteadily made his way back to their table. 

"Got chips too," he said as he set them down with a surprisingly minimal amount of spillage. 

"Are we expecting company?" Greg asked.

"Huh? No, the extras are because the bartender over there said it's nice to see us in here all relaxed and enjoying ourselves. Dunno what he's talking about, but I'm not complaining. Scored us drinks and chips."

Greg looked over at the bartender in his smedium shirt, cut muscles, and hair that was more gel than actual hair. He winked and nodded.

"Jesus, John. He thinks we're gay. You didn't give him your phone number, did you?"

"What?"

"You didn't give him mine!" Greg is somewhere between horrified and hopeful. 

"No! Not everyone is gay, Greg, drink your whiskey and shut up."

Greg tosses back one of the shots and drags the back of his hand across his lips. "I didn't say that, I said he thought we were gay."

"You just assumed that because he looks gay, maybe he remembers us from last time."

"Last time? Last time was three months ago when I drank half a beer and then got called back to the office."

John rolls his eyes and downs a shot of his own. "My point still stands, not everyone is gay."

"Yeah, but you're a little gay." Greg lets a wicked grin spread across his face while John grimaces. 

"Not you too, fucking hell, how many times do I have to tell people, I'm not actually gay."

Greg keeps grinning and raises the next shot to his lips. 

_lost count 'while back shots_

"Ok, maybe I'm a little gay," John said as he eyed the arse of the bartender who had just delivered another round of drinks and a second basket of chips.

Greg hummed in agreement. Their eyes met and they laughed.

"So have you ever? You know?" Greg asked, eyeing John as he stuffed a hot chip into his mouth.

John waved his hand. "Sure. I was in the army, remember? Circle jerks and mutual blowjobs were common. A classmate and I in med school liked to get drunk and make out. But actual gay sex with feelings? Nah. What about you?"

Greg shrugged. "I was into the club scene in the '80s. Guyliner, black leather, and punk rock. Not skinhead shit, mind you. There was a lot of sex in bathrooms and back alleys. A few even made it back to my shitty apartment. Did it once with a buttoned up finance type who was slumming, but wasn't willing to deal with that baggage. That's actually what got me in with the police, you know, an undercover convinced me to join the force. Worked in drug & vice. That's how I met his Lordship."

"You know, I asked him about that once, drugs and your drugs bust from when I first met him. He just replied, 'research, John' and then refused to talk to me for two days."

Greg snorted and rolled his eyes. "He liked to think himself capable of controlling it."

They sat in silence for a minute, television and rowdy late-night drunks noise a dull roar in the background. 

"So you and he never?" Greg asks.

"What? Sherlock? God no. He was be pretty at first glance, but then he opened his mouth and ruined it." John looked thoughtful for a moment. "Besides, I'm not actually sure he was into that. Well, unless you have evidence to the contrary?"

"Oh god no. Not my type, not really."

"So what is your type? Ripped bartender at the end of the night?"

Greg snorted into his drink. "I'm really too drunk to be having this conversation."

"That's a yes then."

Greg eyes the bartender, trying not to get caught because no, ripped bartender really isn't his type. At least not right now. "That's a no. We've established yours is convenient and not Sherlock, so does that mean you'll be going home with the bartender?"

John eyes him up and down. "Do you have a picture of yourself in black leather and guyliner?"

Greg narrowed his eyes at John. "Maybe."

"Back your place?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and twirling his empty drink glass around.

"Maybe."

John nodded, expectantly.

"I'm not putting on skinny jeans again John, not even for you."

"Don't need them and don't want to see them. Like the 'after' just fine, but I am interested in a visual on the 'before'."

Greg laughed, "it's getting near closing time anyway and I'm not far. Let's go."

_Just one more beer or maybe not_

Greg bends over more than necessary while peering into the fridge. “All I’ve got is lager.” He hopes John enjoys the view. 

“Ta.” John manages to catch Greg’s sloppy throw across the small kitchen. He struggles with the bottle top for moment before giving up. “Is this twist off?”

Greg looks at his own bottle carefully. “Ah, no.”

John cracks up laughing, the joke much funnier in their current state than it would be otherwise. “I need a bottle opener then, you knob.” 

Greg pulls open a drawer as John crosses the kitchen to stand beside. Greg leans back against the counter while John pops open both their drinks. He leans into Greg, hip against hip and shoulder against shoulder. 

Greg pushes back. “You say something about knobs?”

John shakes his head in mock despair. “Lines like that work for you back in the clubs? Those jeans must have been really skinny.” 

“I used to be more charming.”

“I bet you weren’t.” John angles himself further into Greg’s shoulder and suddenly they’re kissing. It’s teeth and tongues and nothing tentative. John tastes like whiskey and feels just as smooth. 

John bites down on Greg’s bottom lip and that’s all the motivation Greg needs to pull John across his body, effectively pinning him to the countertop. 

John’s hands curl around Greg’s shoulders as he grinds against the tented fabric of Greg’s khakis. 

The hot and hard press of their cocks through layers of fabric is still enough to make Greg moan into John’s mouth. He fights back by pulling his lips away from John’s kiss and instead sucking a bright right spot just below John’s jaw. Greg works John’s jumper and vest up over John’s back. He lays the warm flat of his calloused palms on either side of John’s spine. 

They spend long moments against Greg’s kitchen counter. Hands wander and clothes get pushed to the side. John’s hips thrust and drag across Greg’s cock with increasing urgency. Somehow, even though John is licking trails along his collarbone, he manages to work a hand between them and get John’s trousers open enough to grab and handful of John’s pants and red-hot cock. 

“Come on.” Greg nudges John’s forehead with his chin. “I’m too old to wank a bloke off in the kitchen.” 

John’s cock jerks in his fist. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“It’s with you, on your knees, in front of my sofa.” 

John’s wide, unfocused eyes meet Greg’s gaze. He licks his lips before replying. “Yeah, that’s a good place to start.” 

And if Greg had known what a jolt it would be to his masculine pride to have a disheveled, swollen-lipped, turned on John Watson kneeling between his knees, he would have suggested it ages ago. Instead, he settles for working his trousers and pants down just enough to free his cock before sitting back and spreading his knees to invite John closer. 

John shuffles forward and lays an arm across Greg’s hips before wrapping his hand around the base of Greg’s erection. He gives Greg one filthy look before sucking the head of Greg’s cock into his mouth. Greg’s hips jump up reflexively but John is ready and pushes them back down. The pressure of his forearm gives Greg some lovely resistance to thrust against. 

John starts slowly, licking and sucking just the head. His hand gives a few lazy pumps in time with Greg’s attempted thrusts. Greg manages to wrestle his shirt over his head so he can run a hand across his own chest. His skin is over sensitive, tingling from arousal and alcohol. He wants to let his head fall back, let his eyes sink closed, but his cock in John’s mouth may be a once in a lifetime event and he isn’t going to miss it. 

The deeper John takes Greg’s cock, the more Greg moans. He was loud even in club bathrooms and in a quiet apartment, in the middle of the night, he sounds even louder. He hits the back of John’s throat and feels his balls tighten. He’s close and his warning to John comes out just as garbled nonsense. 

John understand though. He pulls the arm that’s been keeping Greg’s hips in check away, rises up a little higher on his knees, and braces his forearms against the cushions. 

“Fuck yes.” Greg grabs John’s head with both hands and thrusts, fucking John’s mouth with fast, deep strokes. 

He comes with a shout. John clamps his lips around Greg’s cock and sucks and swallows until Greg sinks bonelessly into the sofa and waves him off for mercy’s sake. 

John sits for a few moments between his knees, breathing heavily, before rising to stand in front of Greg. He works open his trousers and drops them to the floor. “Lie down.” 

Greg turns and lays himself out on the sofa while John kicks out of his trousers and crawls on top of him, legs straddling his chest.

"This okay?" John asks.

Greg nods and licks his lips, staring at John's cock before wiggling to get his arms around his hips to grip his arse and bring him closer to his mouth. He groans as John sinks into his mouth. Greg grabs generous handfuls of John’s arse to pull him forward, encouraging John to fuck his mouth. 

He can already taste the bitter tang of precome each time John drives into the back of his throat. He chokes a bit, too caught up in the weight of John on his chest to pay attention to his breathing. John tries to pull back but Greg keeps him firmly in place, cock nudging against the roof of his mouth. 

John slows his thrusts and leans over Greg to brace his hands against the edge of the sofa. The change in angle allows him to fuck more deeply into Greg’s throat. 

“Can you take it?” John asks. Greg can’t really answer or even nod very convincingly but he does the best he can. John pushes that little more and Greg swallows around the head of his cock. 

“Shit.” John takes a hold of the silver hair at the crown of Greg’s head and thrusts over and over again and Greg keeps swallowing as best he can. Finally, one hot pulse of come lands across Greg’s tongue before John pulls out, painting his lips and chin with what’s left. 

Greg touches a fingertip to the come on his chin. “Messy.”

“Never had the luxury of making a mess in the army.”

John’s polite enough to toss Greg his discarded shirt to clean up with before collapsing on the sofa half on top of him, half beside him. 

"God that was good," Greg says as they lie there, both catching their breaths. He feels John's smile in response. 

"I'm too old for a fuck-and-run," John mumbles into his chest.

Greg huffs out a laugh, "stay, then. I know how to make a mean hangover breakfast."

He nudges John. "C'mon, bed is more comfortable." They both get to their feet and stumble, giggling at the ridiculousness of it all, into the bedroom. It takes a few minutes to arrange arms and legs and heads into some sort of order that’s comfortable, but not too intimate. 

"Hey John?" Greg asks into the quiet dark.

"Hmmm?"

"We should do this again sometime, yeah?"

"What? The blowjobs?"

"Well those, but the whole thing, drinks, blowjobs, hopefully morning sex, and breakfast."

"That sounds nice, but I'm withhold final agreement until after I've tasted your beans. I'm very particular about my beans."


End file.
